Cold Animals
by wetdonky
Summary: A new member of the Legion, Scipius Remulus isn't exactly combat-ready. Young and impulsive, no one sees him as anything greater than a lower-class soldier. As the war heats up, and a dragon attacks Helgen, Scipius must stand strong against the opposition, but can he stand strong in his morals when he learns that the Stormcloaks have an ace up their sleeve? -Edited by Myzzet
1. A New Customer

The rocky path felt hard and inhospitable under Scipius's feet as he walked. He felt the wind's sharp sting whirl around him in a fit of anger. He heard the pines roar around him, indignant in their protest. Scipius gathered his deerskin cloak around him and shivered. The walls of Solitude rose up against the wind ahead, a defiance of the natural order that permeated Skyrim. The dismally dark grey bricks of the city were a welcome change from the many dangers that lurked these lands. Scipius squinted toward the bright candlelight of the town guard as they completed their nightly rounds.

As he approached the large wooden gate, a helmeted in a red tabard with a wolf insignia on it, the outfit for a Solitude Guard, greeted Scipius. "Hail, Imperial!"

"Hail, friend." Scipius returned a curt nod, and walked past the man. Two more of the guard waited beyond the first wall, and quickly pushed open the main gate into the city. Scipius politely thanked them and stepped into the city.

The streets were dark and ominous, as if the shadows were reaching out with dark fingers to take from the unwary. The only source of light in the murky darkness were a few lanterns lit to each side of the path, snaking between stores and houses unerringly. Scipius judged the time, and went to the closest tavern. The candle outside of the large wooden structure illuminated a brightly painted sign of a large rat batting its eye. The inscription, in large red and gold letters, read _The Winking Skeever._ The wind picked up, its howling cry bringing to mind the cry of a wounded beast. Shuddering, only partly from the cold, Scipius walked up the creaking wooden stairs, and pushed his way into the bar.

A fire was blazing in the fireplace as the imperial walked in, warming him to the core. The sound of drinking, clinking, and singing filled his ears as he registered the other patrons. Men and women filled their mugs and sang drinking songs. Scipius immediately smiled. He felt much more at home with his fellow man than with nature as his companion. As if hearing his thoughts, the wind picked up outside again, sending an eerie creak through the building. The sound did nothing to dampen the spirits of the spirit-drinkers, as most of them were either too loud or too drunk to notice.

Scipius strolled to the bar and sat at a stool. "I need a drink," he said to the barkeep, a middle-aged imperial with a blonde mustache.

" Welcome to the Winking Skeever, friend," the barkeep said heartily. "Do you have a preference as to what that drink is?"

"Something strong." Scipius grinned.

The bartender looked behind him at a smaller imperial, with many of the same average features. "Sorex! Get this man some mead, will you?" Sorex, obviously a little miffed, went to get a stein from behind the counter.

The man studied Scipius, looking for something in his face. Scipius wasn't much to look at, either. A rather unimpressionable face with unimpressionable dark eyes and dark hair, on an unimpressionable body. His clothes were ragged and dirty from the trek north from Rorikstead, and weren't that impressive, even in their prime. He carried only a small iron dagger at his side. "Let me guess," the barkeep said, eventually. "You're a poor farmer, with little combat experience, here to join the Imperial Legion."

Scipius smiled slightly. "How did you know? Was it that obvious?"

The man pulled a dirty rag from under the bar and started polishing a mug. "A lot of your kind come around here, trying to either escape the war, or join in. Those troubles don't cross my doorway. The Winking Skeever is an escape from these dark times." The barkeep looked around. "Sorex?! Where's this man's mead?"

"So impatient, Father." Sorex planted a mug of frothy liquid on the bar, and slid it to Scipius. He caught it effortlessly, and took a sip. The drink was bitter, but had a sweet, tangy aftertaste.

"Honningbrew, right?" Scipius took another sip.

"Yeah, you're quite the alcohol connoisseur," Sorex said, leaning up against another table, serving beer to awaiting customers. "Perhaps even better than my old man Corpulus here."

The bartender, Corpulus, started wiping down the table. "Yeah, right. Don't you have better things to do than embarrass your father in front of new customers?"

Sorex laughed, accidentally bumping into a drunken patron in the process. "Sadly, no. Evette is out restocking our ale, and it's no good for business to make fun of the customers."

Scipius watched the exchange with amusement for a while, then drifted over to an empty table. A candle flickered weakly, emitting a ghastly shade upon his face. He nursed his mead- he wasn't an alcoholic by any means- and waited for the bar to settle down before asking for a room.

He approached Corpulus by the bar again as he was serving the bard. "Can I rent a room? I don't have a place to stay tonight."

Corpulus finished up serving the bard, and turned to him with a smile. "Of course, new friend! The Winking Skeever is nothing if not hospitable!" Scipius handed the man ten septims and walked upstairs to an extravagant bedchamber. A small chest rested at the foot of the queen-sized bed. A shelf rested on the wall, stocked with books to keep guests busy. A few potions rested on the shelf too, but Scipius decided against taking them. He figured they would be an extra cost, and he didn't have much to spare. The trek here was long and hard.

The imperial fell into the bed and felt himself start to drift away. _Long day ahead of me tomorrow,_ he thought lazily, as he relinquished his consciousness into a deep sleep.


	2. I am Toorg

"Name?" A small Nord man sat behind a small oak desk with a quill and paper. He kept his eyes firmly on his paper, not making eye contact with anyone.

"Remulus. Scipius Remulus." Scipius paced back and forth, trying to shake the excitement from his voice. The room was small, and limited his pacing, but the enclosed space only made him more edgy. Once he had woken up, Scipius had rushed to the Solitude barracks, and asked to join up with the Imperial Legion. The soldiers ushered him into this room with the diminutive man across from him. He supposed it was necessary for the Legion to conduct a physical exam for all new recruits, but why did it have to be so boring?

"Race?" asked the man, refusing to look up and see for himself.

"Uh, Imperial. My father was a Nord, though," offered Scipius.

Completely ignoring what Scipius had said, the scribe continued. "Town of origin?" The Nord absent-mindedly tapped his quill on the desk.

"Rorikstead. I'm from Rorikstead." Scipius leaned up against the stone wall, trying to alleviate some of his jitteriness. He tried to focus on a bald spot on the scribe's head.

"Mmm-hmm… Any diseases, curses, or lost limbs on you?"

Scipius gestured at his arms. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure I have all of my limbs." _This is dumb_ , thought Scipius, flexing his arms impatiently. He should be out there, restoring peace to his homeland. Not in here, rotting away with a man too lazy to look at him.

"Any past fighting experience?" The man dipped his quill into his ink, and dabbed the paper lightly. Scipius was tempted to say, _yeah, I defeated Talos in one-on-one combat_. He decided against it, though. He figured this Nord didn't appreciate jesting. "No, not really."

Scipius waited a few minutes while the scribe wrote. It seemed like forever and a half had passed before the scribe finally put down his quill. Without looking up, the scribe slid his paper to Scipius's side of the table.

"Feel free to take this paper to Legate Rikke in Castle Dour. She will take you from here. Training for new recruits begins at midday. Don't be late." With that, the small scrivener gathered up his quill, inkwell, and extra papers, and ushered Scipius out the door.

Scipius blinked at the sudden brightness of the outdoors. Solitude was much more beautiful during the day than at nighttime. The air hummed with an energetic buzzing as merchants enthusiastically pawned their wares. Children ran along the cobble road, shrieking in the joyful way that children do. The streets were full of people rushing to and fro, off to buy food or to go to their jobs. A contingent of Legionnaires, in full Imperial heavy armor flashing, march by a sleazy-looking Argonian, giving shifty looks through the crowd with his reptilian eyes. Flags danced in the breeze, waving cheerful helloes to the birds that soared overhead.

Castle Dour was just across the street from the barracks, so it wasn't hard to find. Outside of the door, a couple of Imperial Guards, decked in Imperial leathers, kept a vigilant watch over the residents of Solitude. Scipius flashed his paper as he walked past them, and into a long entryway, imperial flags lining each side. A large wooden door stood on the far end, shut tightly. In the space between himself and the door, maybe five other people were waiting on a few different benches. Most of them looked a lot like him; that is to say, poor farmers wanting to make a difference. Only one was different, and he caught Scipius's eye immediately.

The man was an Orc, a tall, green-skinned brute, dressed in furs, with a wicked battleaxe strapped to his back. The Orc looked young, perhaps only twenty. Scipius wasn't much older. The Orc gave him a head-nod as he passed. Scipius tried not to look panicked, and nodded back. The barbarian laughed, seeing Scipius's discomfort, and walked over to the Imperial.

"Is little man here to fight for glory?" The Orc's deep, guttural voice unsettled Scipius.

"Uh…" Scipius's mind blanked. "Yeah, I guess. You?"

The brute smiled. "Yes. I come to do my stronghold proud." He stuck out his hand to shake. "I am Toorg gro-Urbagh. I am strong!" The hopeful soldiers around Scipius looked at the Orc in disgust, or fear, or both. All that Scipius felt was pity for the Orc. Sure, their reputation for pillaging and rape are well-earned, but Orcs are lesser known for their bravery and loyalty.

Scipius argued with himself for a moment, then stuck out his hand. "Scipius Remulus, at your service, Toorg." They shook hands.

Scipius was expecting Toorg's grip to be crushing, but his hand was met with equal strength, as if the Orc knew how strong he was, and restrained himself. Scipius quickly forged a newfound respect for his acquaintance.

Toorg looked confused as he shook. He looked around the room at the other soldiers, and they avoided his gaze. The Orc looked to the closed door down the hallway. Content that no one was listening, he growled, "Don't want to be rude, but why would mother name you Skippy?"

Scipius couldn't help but burst out laughing. "No, my name is Scipius. Skip-ee-yus." He sounded it out for the brute.

Toorg tried to sound it out too. "Skippy. This is what I said, yes? Is name not Skippy?" Toorg looked at Scipius with unknowingly innocent eyes. Scipius felt the mirth return.

"No, Scipi-YUS. There's a YUS at the end."

The muscular mass of the giant Orc shifted as he pondered this new development. "Skippy… Us?" Scipius nodded. The Orc nodded back. "Skippy-Us, your name is confusing."

"Hah, yeah, I suppose." Scipius was about to comment on the simplicity of Toorg's own name when the door at the end of the hallway swung open, revealing a Nord woman, taller and more muscular than Scipius. Her brown hair tumbled around her shoulders, revealing a hard warrior's face. She wore heavy Imperial armor, and looked comfortable in it. A mace rested at her side, blood stains tarnishing the bright steel.

"Fall in line, soldiers!" Her command barked out short and precise, urging Scipius, Toorg, and the rest of the farmers into a single-file line. The woman marched them through the door, and into a map room. The only notable detail that caught Scipius's eye was an extravagant map lying on a large table. Small flags and symbols dotted the paper landscape, presumably towns and cities of interest in the Civil War. Besides this, the intricate stone walls, and a few sparse decorations, the room was mostly empty.

The woman raised her voice again. "I am Legate Rikke of the Imperial Legion. So I can say from experience that this road you have set yourselves on is no stroll through the woods. We are in a war, gentlemen. You are expected to kill, and some of you will be killed. If this doesn't please you, leave now." She waited a beat. No one moved a muscle.

"Good, last time I gave that speech, half the new recruits ran for the hills." She smiled slightly, then retained her rock-hard demeanor. "You are all expected to carry out your duties to the Legion in any way you can. Some join the Legion for the wealth," she said pointedly at most of the soldiers. They nodded uncomfortably. "… Others join the Legion for honor and glory." Toorg smiled. "Some join to protect their land, and families, and former lives." Rikke wasn't looking at him, but Scipius couldn't shake the feeling that she was talking to him.

"No matter the reason, all join to better the Legion. I'm sure you will all shine in this war in your own ways, some more than others. But you all will be heroes. Repeat after me! Upon my honor I do swear undying loyalty to the Emperor, Titus Mede II and unwavering obedience to the officers of his great Empire." Scipius and the rest echoed hers, weak compared to her booming voice.

"May those above judge me, and those below take me, if I fail in my duty."

"May those above judge me, and those below take me, if I fail in my duty." Scipius started to get louder, as did the farmers. Toorg's voice was deep and resonant in the chamber.

"Long live the Emperor! Long live the Empire!"

"Long live the Emperor! Long live the Empire!" Their cry reverberated throughout the castle.

"Welcome to the Legion, boys," she said, straight faced. "If you need weapons and armor, go and see Beirand, the local blacksmith. Otherwise, Captain Aldis is holding an introductory training session in the main courtyard at midday. Don't be late, auxiliaries." Rikke saluted. "Dismissed."

The new Legionnaires saluted back, and filed out of the room.


	3. The Cold Mountain

Scipius ran his arm across his forehead, trying to wipe the sweat from his eyes. His body felt hot and clammy, his hands were uncoordinated, and he probably smelled, like all of the other new recruits. Captain Aldis, a bear of a Nord in Solitude Guard garb, yelled at them as they sparred with an assortment of straw and wooden dummies.

"Come on, men! My grandmother can swing harder than you! Move it!" Aldis bellowed out more encouragement as Scipius took another swing at the dummy with his new sword. His armor felt foreign to him, and he was still getting used to the feel of the Imperial leathers.

Every movement Scipius made, his body protested, creaking and aching and sweating to get his attention. Scipius brought up his new shield to block an imaginary swing. His movements felt sluggish and graceless. Most of the other recruits looked like they were experiencing similar problems. There were about ten of them in all, hacking away into wood and straw. One Nord, a tall woman with blonde curls, was trying to decapitate her dummy. Instead, she accidentally let her sword swing loose, and the blade whistled through the air for a moment before imbedding itself into a tapestry on the stone wall. The captain did not look happy.

The only recruit that didn't seem out of their element was Toorg. The Orc slashed up training dummy after training dummy with precise swings with his axe. Toorg wore a gleeful smile as he eviscerated his prey. Captain Aldis looked over the barbarian's shoulder, and muttered his commendations. "You're an experienced warrior, gro-Urbagh. Perhaps I'll have to raise the difficulty for you."

Toorg removed his axe from his victim and rested it on his shoulder. "I am strong," he agreed.

Scipius smiled at Toorg, and continued hacking at his target.

A few hours later, after training, Scipius found himself at the Winking Skeever. He sat down at a table, and nursed a mead. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a few other recruits point to him. Three of them walked over. They sat down, getting comfortable in their chairs. The three Nords were obviously farmers, like himself, but they looked noticeably more muscled. One of them, a large redheaded fellow with a fiery beard, spoke up. "So, how's the Legion treatin' you so far?"

Scipius looked up from his drink and smiled. "Greatly, friend. The pay is fine, the drink is good, and all this exercise is sure to keep me in shape! You?"

The redheaded Nord rested a mug of ale on the counter, and sighed. "Fine, fine. As an added bonus, every woman in Skyrim will want us after we win the war. But sadly, I'm married, so I can't really reap this reward."

One of the other Nords looked at the redheaded one in awe. "Bjergsten, are you tellin' me you've got an arrow in the knee?"

Bjergsten looked at the Nord in mirth. "Yeah, I'm married. And I'm out here, risking my life for my Emperor, and there's no place I'd rather be."

"How can you stand being away, though," the other one asked. "Don't you love your wife?"

Bjergsten took a long drink of his ale. "It's for her that I'm out here. If we lose the war to these rebels, the Empire is all the weaker. Trust me, we don't want a weak Empire." Bjergsten stood up, and went to the bar to get another mug.

Scipius politely conversed with the other Nords. One, Injarld, said that he'd defeated a giant that had wandered into his field. Scipius laughed. "You, my friend, have had too much to drink!"

"It's true," Injarld slurred, leaning on the table heavily. "I killed it with THIS hand!" He stuck out an arm weakly. The other Nord, Gord, said that he was a cattle rancher.

"I feed 'em, I breed 'em, I eat 'em," he said, licking his lips. "Nothin' quite hits the spot like a good cow steak."

There was a loud bang as the door opened and shut again, and Toorg walked into the pub. The Orc looked around apprehensively, then saw Scipius at the far table. He smiled, and yelled from across the tavern. "Skippy, there you are!" He sauntered over happily.

The disdain on the two Nord's faces was evident as Toorg approached. He nodded to them slowly. "Brothers-in-arms! I am Toorg gro-Urbagh. I am strong!" He stuck out his hand to shake.

Injarld looked down at his mug, and groaned. "Orcs," he said, between his teeth.

Gord waved off Toorg's friendly outstretched hand with his stein. "I don't like your kind, Orc. Why don't ya go rape a baby or something?"

Toorg looked confusedly at the Nords, then at Scipius. He looked back with equal confusion, and perhaps a bit of anger at Injarld and Gord. "Why would anyone do that?", he asked.

"You look a bit green, Orc," said Gord, smiling at Injarld. "You look like you have a headache; that is, if you had a brain."

"Hah, yeah," continued Injarld. "Someone must've dropped ya in a pile of mammoth droppings, because you smell terrible!" He laughed wickedly. Tears started to for in Toorg's eyes.

Scipius spoke up. "Hey, that's enough!"

Gord looked at him angrily. "Oh, yeah, you like this beast, don't ya?" Injarld started to rise from his chair.

A deep, grumbling voice shook from behind Gord and Injarld. "Me too." The redheaded Bjergsten, back from filling a mug, lifted both Gord and Injarld out of their chairs by their tunics, and threw them across the room. They landed with a crack against the stone wall, and both men groaned. Injarld tried to get up, but slipped and fell back down. Bjergsten sat down again, took a sip of his ale, and looked around. The bar had grown silent, except for the groans of the two men. Eventually, the bard continued his song, and business returned as usual. Bjergsten forcibly stuck out his hand to Toorg. "Bjergsten Cold-Mountain. I'm strong, too."

Toorg took it, wiping the tears from his eyes. "Toorg gro-Urbagh… Thank you, Bee-Sting."

Bjergsten looked confused. "No, my name's Bjersten."

"Yes, Bee-Sting," said Toorg, adamant. "Is that not what I said?"

Scipius laughed heartily. "Let it go, Cold-Mountain. That's a fight you can't win."

They all shared a laugh as patrons around them guzzled alcohol, and the Nords groaned weakly on the floor.


	4. A Week's Training

Rain came down in sheets against the people of Solitude, chilling the city to its bones. The streets were mostly empty as the sky poured out its tears upon the land. The weather had decided to be cruel today, as is usual in Skyrim. The hawks of the city roosted in their nests, trying desperately to keep themselves dry in the unyielding torrent. The sea rose up in defiance against Solitude's dockyard, sending small fishing boats crashing into shore. All nature seemed to freeze today, waiting out the storm with bated breath. All movement ceased, except in the main courtyard in Castle Dour, where wet, miserable Imperial soldiers sparred with each other.

Scipius raised his shield against the incoming axe of Toorg. The iron axe head recoiled from the wooden shield, slightly bruising Scipius's arm. Toorg grunted uncomfortably as he reeled back, trying to regain his balance in the slippery mud around his feet. Scipius used this opportunity to bash his shield under the Orc's chin, laying him flat in the mud.

The Orc blinked some dirt out of his eye, and looked up in grudging respect. "Not bad, Skippy."

"Not bad yourself," said Scipius, offering a hand to help Toorg up. "I think you almost wrenched my arm out of its socket." Toorg took his hand, and got up unsteadily.

One week had passed since Scipius had joined the Legion. Training was rigorous, extensive, and left him with more than his share of scars and bruises. He felt himself slowly improving, due to the difficult regiment. He felt as if he could swing a sword without the danger of lopping off a friend's head. The rest of his cohort was slowly improving as well. The Nord woman, he found out to be named Sofifa, turned out to be quite the archer. Gord was a solid shield-bearer. Injarld was a respectable swordsman. Toorg was obviously a master at two-handed weapons. Bjergsten seemed to excel at everything. Scipius… was actually quite average. He usually lost the training duels he was put into, and he suspected that Toorg went a bit easy on him, although the Orc would never admit to it.

Trying to shield himself from the rain, Scipius walked back to the line of his cohort. Captain Aldis, stoic as ever, stood at the front of the line. "Good work, Auxiliary Remulus. Way to use the terrain. Next, Auxiliaries Cold-Mountain and Rexus."

By the end of the training session, the rain had relinquished its grip on the world, but the waves still rocked the shoreline. The men were already talking about what they were going to do afterward when Aldis called them to form up. Scipius's cohort marched in rows of two, Bjergsten and Aldis leading the way. Aldis led the troops out to the city gates.

As they marched, they passed people emerging from their homes. They gave fleeting glances to the troops. Toorg leaned over to Scipius, his axe shaft almost bonking the Imperial on the head. "Where do you think we go, Skippy?"

"I don't know, Toorg," said Scipius, looking off to the side where the Winking Skeever sat, its patrons barely fazed by the previous onslaught of rain. "I could really use a drink right now, though. I hope this doesn't take long."

Toorg smiled, his fangs curling upward in a grim display of amusement. "Yes," he said, licking his lips.

The contingent marched out of the city, past the safe stone walls, and on the road just outside of the first gate. Legate Rikke and an unfamiliar Nord man stood waiting for them. The man carried himself importantly, with startling green eyes, and dark brown hair and beard. He had a sword and shield at his side, and wore a large set of heavy armor, with reinforced steel plates. Scipius and the rest of his cohort approached and saluted. They returned the gesture.

"Pay attention, men," barked Rikke sharply. "This is Legate Kjeld Thundersong. He will be in command of you from now on. You are all ready to be deployed into the fight to keep the peace." Rikke paused, letting the soldiers absorb what was being said. "Congratulations, soldiers. You've officially graduated." The men whooped, including Scipius. The training was harsh, and he had looked forward to going out into the world.

Legate Thundersong stepped forward. "Auxiliaries." His voice was deep and rumbly, and Scipius could feel his voice in his bones. "I'm now your commanding officer. Pleased to meet all of you."

Rikke stood off to the right of Kjeld. "You will all be deployed to Helgen. Word from the General is that more soldiers are needed for an operation. He will brief all of you on arrival. Am I clear?" The cohort muttered their acknowledgements. "Good. They're yours from here, Thundersong."

"Thank you, Rikke." The new Legate saluted her, and turned to his new troops. Rikke saluted back, and began to walk back into Solitude, leaving the excited faces of the soldiers behind.

"We leave in an hour. Pack up, and get here by dusk. Dismissed."

An hour later, Scipius found himself saying his goodbyes to the Winking Skeever. The tavern was muted, as the soldiers that usually occupied it were shipping out. Corpulus and a lone bard were all that the pub had to its name.

"Ah, it's a shame to lose such loyal customers so soon!" Corpulus shook hands with Scipius. "Whenever you find yourself in Solitude, the Skeever is open to you!"

"Thank you for letting me stay here, Corpulus. You've been a great help."

Scipius ordered a mead on the go, and turned around slowly, savoring the trilling sound of the lyre, and the delectable smells of good food and good mead. He walked out the door, and breathed in the fresh air slowly. The bad weather had all but vanished in the dusk air. As the stars began to wink into existence, he made his way outside the city limits, where a line of soldiers waited in the coming darkness, anxious to get on their way. _To Helgen_ , thought Scipius.


	5. Birdcalls

Scipius woke from his sleep, gasping and flailing. In his floundering, he knocked over a glass of cheap wine onto his sleeping furs, successfully drenching himself in Alto. Toorg looked down on him in amusement. "Get up, Skippy," he said, shaking off beads of alcohol from his Imperial armor, a few sizes too small for him.

Scipius got up slowly, and brushed his head against the low ceiling of the leather tent. The motion sent ripples down the cloth, giving off a faint rushing noise. Toorg could barely stand up without bumping his head in the canvas. "We have to go," he said. "Legate said we march to Dragon Bridge today. Long trek."

"Ugh…" Scipius held his head. The company had made it three hours out of Solitude when the rain returned. It was so bad, Legate Kjeld had to call for an early camp. "Is it still pouring out there?"

The Orc grew a pleased expression. "Come and see." He turned slowly, trying not to disturb the tent, and stepped out.

Scipius put on his Imperial leather, strapped his scabbard around his waist, and hefted his shield. Satisfied that he was ready for marching, he opened the flap to the tent, revealing a beautiful sight.

The sky was dyed purple and red by the rising sun, an orange disk on the horizon. The grass rolled and waved in the wind, sending droplets of fluorescent color to the rich soil below. The hills around the camp stood tall and proud, dwarfed only by the sight of rolling mountains at the edge of his perception. Birds of every kind began to wake up, singing their cheerful songs to the pastel of the sky. A lone stag grazed in the distance, looking up for only a moment, light glinting off of his antlers. The sight left Scipius speechless.

Toorg stood a respectful distance away, admiring the view with him. "Quite pretty, yes?", he said, not taking his eyes off of the world.

"Nature can be beautiful," Scipius finally said, whistling. "When she wants to be."

"Could you two please stop chattering, and help me with this tent?" Injarld impatiently fiddled with some leather straps, sending the tent crashing into a heap.

As they helped pack up, Legate Thundersong began to form up the troops to march. Scipius picked up his bedroll, and got into position, Toorg to his side, Bjergsten in front of him. "Move out, soldiers! If we move fast, we can make it to Dragon Bridge in the hour," Kjeld boomed out, his voice resonating like a waterfall crashing over a canyon.

After an hour and a half of walking over the plains, Toorg pointed out a set of large stone spires jutting out of the horizon. "Dragon Bridge," he said reverently.

As they approached, Scipius saw the bridge. It was seventy-five feet across, with large stone spires rising from the path at even intervals. A stone dragon's head grinned at them, supported by two of the columns of rock. The town itself wasn't much to look at. Only a few knobby houses, and a squalid pub, nowhere near as clean as the Winking Skeever. As the cohort walked over the bridge, Scipius couldn't help but look down. The canyon seemed to go on forever, jagged rocks lining each side. The faint sound of rushing water could be heard coming from the bottom. Gord looked over the edge quizzically. "I wonder how far down this goes."

Bjergsten looked back, a cruel smile playing across his face. "Would you like to find out, Gord? I don't need wings to show you the quickest way down."

Gord looked back with a sour expression, rubbing his helmet. "One cheap fight, and you get all cocky, eh?"

"I'll show you cocky, Gord!" Bjergsten tightened his grip around the pommel of his mace.

The legate looked back, amused. "Save some aggression for the Stormcloaks, please."

A reed warbler trilled in the distance as the troops put the bridge behind them. Scipius felt the weather warm as they headed further south. The birds and animals became more familiar as they travelled. A robin called out to its mate as Bjergsten turned back slightly to Scipius.

We're in Markarth territory now, Imperial. Rorikstead's not much farther. You ever think about what's goin' on back where you came from?"

A bluebird trilled. "Sure. I don't have much family, just my sister. I suppose she's travelling to Riften to get married to some young hooligan. Do you have family? A wife, right?"

A crow cawed in the distance, protesting against the noise. "Yeah… She's far away from this war, as she should be. I don't want her getting mixed up in…" Bjergsten gestured around at the dimming light. "… All this."

A shrill whistle pierced the night, making all of the soldiers start. Kjeld reassured them all. "It's just a bird. Now, we have a few more hours until we rest. Gord, you have first watch…" The legate continued.

Scipius frantically looked to Toorg, who seemed oblivious to the noise. "That was no bird," he said, loosening his sword.

"If it wasn't a bird, then what was it, then?", Injarld spoke up, looking out over the plains.

Scipius was about to reply when heard a faint whistling sound. A flash of white and wood, and an arrow pierced the darkness, planting itself firmly into Injarld's neck with a _thunk_. The man tried to speak, but collapsed weakly instead.

"We're under attack!" Kjeld's voice boomed out over the hills. The cohort raised their shields defiantly. "Form rank!"


	6. Pincushion

High, shrieking cries echoed over the hills. Injarld struggled on the ground, kicking up dust with an arrow in his neck. The Legionnaires circled around with their shields, forming an oval around the spasming form of the Nord. Kjeld stood in the center, marshalling the troops. They raised their shields in defiant anger, staring into the coming darkness.

Gord looked dazed as he sallied next to Scipius. "They… they got Injarld…"

"They'll get us to, if we don't keep sharp." Scipius flinched as a second arrow thudded into his shield, the tip of it puncturing through the wood, inches from his face. A solid bone point, protruding from a knobby pine shaft. "Oh… Gods…"

"What? What is it?" Gord looked over, terrified.

"Scipius gestured at the arrow grimly. "Forsworn," he said, gritting his teeth.

As the sun fell below the horizon, a lone man appeared in the steppes. He wore nothing but a fur jerkin, a polished bow in his hand, another arrow drawn. He yelled out over the plains. "The Reach is ours, dogs! Send out your strongest for a fight, or I will kill you all!" He let the arrow fly, letting it sink into the ground at the cohort's feet. The circle of Imperials shied away from it.

Kjeld looked out over his men. "No doubt there are other archers over that hill. It'd be suicide to charge." He flexed his arms, as if he wanted to try. He looked down at Injarld, now gasping for air. Kjeld bent down and pulled the arrow out, releasing a spurt of blood, and a gurgling cry. The Nord put down his hand gently, and relaxed his body. A shimmering golden light danced around his fingertips. Scipius stared in amazement as the Legate pushed the bright energy through the air, and into Injarld's throat. As the sparkle receded, Injarld gasped. The skin, now caked in blood, shifted around his throat, stitching itself together.

Scipius looked on in wonder as Injarld got up, unsteady and pale. "He's a healer," he whispered to Toorg.

Kjeld looked around at the staring faces. "What, none of you have seen Restoration magic before? We have a battle to fight here." He stepped out ahead of his soldiers, and paced the line. "I've been through this before. The Forsworn are anything but honorable. They challenge the strongest out to a fight, and pincushion them from the bushes. We aren't going to fall into this trap."

Gord went over to Injarld, and supported the wounded man on his shoulder. "Legate! What do we do?"

"Well," Thundersong said, with a pause. "I'm going to go out there, and get pincushioned."

As the Forsworn walked closer, Kjeld relayed his plan to his troops, and marched out to meet the man. As they reached fifty feet away from each other, Kjeld stopped. "What happens if I win, Forsworn trash?"

"You and your men can leave, unharassed. When I win, I get to kill all of your men, one by one." The Forsworn slipped off his vest, revealing a hairy, muscular chest. He raised his bow menacingly.

"Really?" Kjeld slipped his sword out of its scabbard, revealing a jet-black blade, glinting in the dusk air. "Would you like to prove those words of yours?"

Without a word, the Forsworn let loose an arrow. It glanced off of the Legate's shield harmlessly. Kjeld let loose a vicious battlecry, a deep, bellowing roar, and charged. Ebony clashed with bone as the Forsworn drew his own sword. They exchanged strikes and blocks, parries and stabs, for only a few moments before the Forsworn tumbled away with his bow. He sent an arrow, and it thudded into Kjeld's shoulder plate. He shrugged it off, and ran a few steps before getting shot by another bolt in the chest. He stumbled, but kept running. From another hill, a whistling arrow impaled itself into Kjeld's arm. Five more arrows, from five different locations around the clearing, found their mark on the Nord. He stumbled to his knees, stopping directly ahead of the Forsworn champion. Six other men dressed in furs stepped out of the scrubs, arrows trained on the Legate. He panted.

"So easy to kill a Nord," said the man, sword lacing Kjeld's head. "Tell me, what does it feel like to be out-foxed?"

Kjeld grit his teeth, and stood up, golden energy coursing around his body, healing his wounds. The man fell back. "You tell me." Legate Thundersong raised his hand into a fist.

Scipius saw the signal, and yelled to Toorg. "Now!"

The Orc ran into the clearing, flattening the first Forsworn against the dirt. Imperial arrows, launched by Sofifa and two other soldiers, rained down on the heathen. Bjergsten and Gord rushed in with maces swinging. Scipius rose from behind the Forsworn with the rest of the cohort. "Charge!", he yelled. The Legate's theatrics had given the Imperials enough time to get into ambush position.

The battle was short and bloody; tilted far in favor of the Legion. Scipius cut down one Forsworn, then blocked an attack from another with his shield. The fight went by in a blur as his new combat training kicked in. His movements felt fluid. Left, right, swing, parry, stab. Within five minutes, the bandits were lying in the grass, a bloody stain on the land they fought so hard for. Toorg roared in victory.

The Legate wiped a bit of blood from his mouth. "Alright, men. That was a fun little detour, but we really must make it to that strand of trees before the sky goes dark." He walked off nonchalantly, arrows peppering his armor.


	7. Dance in the Moonlight

Scipius repositioned his pack over his shoulder, and trudged up the rocky slope. He felt the course earth shift under his boots, sending a cascading river of dirt down on Bjergsten. The red-bearded man grunted. "Agh! Whatever you're doing, stop it! I already bathed this week, I don't need a mud bath," he said, as he spat a speck of soil out of his mouth.

"Sorry!" Scipius lifted his foot, sending more dirt onto the Nord. "Oops! Sorry!"

"Y'know what? Just stop moving for a second." Bjergsten stomped up the hill, passing the Imperial. "There you go. Now you can taste my dust, for a change."

Three days had passed since the Forsworn had ambushed them. They hadn't stopped at Rorikstead, per Scipius's request. He left suddenly, and didn't feel ready to return quite yet. They were on their way to Falkreath, then to the east road to Helgen. The shift from rolling plains to luscious pine forests was gradual, but noticeable. As Scipius passed over the hill, he saw yet more giant redwood trees, erupting out of the ground like great wooden sentinels over the earth. Birds sang in the treetops, and the strong howl of a wolf soared a few miles away.

Kjeld walked a ways away, Gord and Injarld trailing behind him. Injarld's wounds hadn't healed, even after extensive healing by the Legate. His neck was a blotchy mix of red rashes and scabs, and his speech was limited to a hoarse, silent whisper of what it once was. Gord hadn't left the man's side since.

Toorg kept pace with Bjergsten and Scipius as they walked. The Orc looked fragile. He'd been this way since the fight, and Scipius hadn't asked him about it yet. He figured that the Orc would tell him when he was ready. Toorg's mouth kept shut, however.

As they marched, Bjergsten stroked his beard in mocking thought. "I'm thinking of something green."

"A leaf?" Scipius's feet crunched through a bunch of pine needles.

"Nah, guess again."

"Uh… Moss."

Bjergsten slung his mace to his side. "Nope. I'll give you a hint; He's fearless, and powerful."

Scipius looked to the Orc. He looked as if he was trying to look like he wasn't paying attention. "Why, if it isn't Toorg the Mighty, then I don't know what it is!" He patted Toorg on the back. He only shrugged.

"What's been eating you, brother?" Bjergsten obviously didn't have Scipius's reservations about asking the Orc what was wrong.

Toorg gruffly sniffed. "Battle supposed to be glorious, supposed to bring you honor. There was no honor. Felt like murder." He hung his head. "What glory is there in killing another?"

Scipius looked at the Orc in shock. "You mean to tell me you've never killed anyone before?"

Toorg kept his head down. "Never." He kicked up some pine needles "Have you?"

Scipius looked at his sword, safely concealed it its scabbard. "Well, no, but it was a life-or-death situation. We had to kill them, or else they would've killed us."

Toorg looked between his boots pensively. "It still does not feel right."

Scipius hadn't expected such deep thoughts from the barbarian. "Where did you grow up, Toorg? Don't most strongholds endorse killing?"

"Not my home. We were peaceful Orcs, in mountains. I left to join Legion, win glory, like my ancestors. This… this pain inside… is not what I expected." Toorg hugged his arms across his chest.

Scipius looked to Bjergsten in surprise. The Nord only shrugged, his large shoulders bobbing up and down like a heaving oak.

That night, as the Legion was setting up camp, Scipius heard voices. The men were clustered around a campfire, making merry in the dark, oily blackness of the forest. Scipius was leaned up next to a tree, enjoying the cool evening, when he heard a twig snap in the woods. Scipius looked over his shoulder, startled. He saw nothing but the grim faces of pine trees, and a pair of large disc-like eyes, perched up in a branch. The owl hooted stalwartly, and shivered, refusing to move from his seat. Another sound caught Scipius's attention; hushed whispering. Without looking back at the fire, Scipius ducked into the woods.

Needles crunched under Scipius's feet as he snuck his way through the forest. Every step sent a shiver down his spine. If anything was to give him away, it would be the ground. The whispers got louder as Scipius advanced, until one of the voices became audible.

"Yeah, yeah, straight to Windhelm. You cannot blame me for stopping at an inn for a drink every once in a while!" It was a man's voice, that much was obvious. He had a deep, exotic accent, one that Scipius had never heard before. The other voice said something inaudible, and the exotic one replied, "Yeah, yeah. You know, when I said I would take this job for the Guild, I thought I would be stealing from a courier, not being one."

Scipius crept around a tree, and saw them. The first one had his back to the Imperial, his voice undiscernible. The second, however, was a strange sight. The man was a giant muscled Redguard, which explained the mysterious accent. He must come from Hammerfell, or somewhere around there. He wore dark brown leathers, pockets and straps lining his large torso and pants. A long dark hood was pulled over his head, masking most of his features in the moonlight. A large battleaxe rested on one of the straps on his back, hung in a way that wouldn't impede the reluctant courier's movement.

As Scipius leaned around the massive trunk of the tree, his foot grazed a branch, making the slightest rustle. He cursed himself quietly as the Redguard looked over the other man's shoulder. "We have company," he said quickly as he rushed into the woods. The other man rushed toward Scipius, pushing the soldier over as he sprinted past. Scipius stood up quickly, wiping the needles from his face. He pursued the courier into the darkness.

Branches whipped into his face as he pushed through the underbrush, trying to follow the noise of falling footsteps. Scipius stopped, trying to get his bearings, and he heard a whooshing sound. Scipius's instincts kicked in, and he ducked under the battleaxe of the Redguard. "You should not have followed me, Imperial," he hissed, readying another swing. Scipius just barely blocked the strike with his shield, staggering back. Scipius swung wildly at the man, but he stepped back effortlessly.

"You are not the best at this whole 'fighting' thing, are you?" The Redguard planted the flat end of his axe into Scipius's chest, sending him flying back into a tree. "You will learn, I'm sure. Unless I feel like killing you."

Scipius got back up, unsteadily. "Oh… Oh yeah?" He tried to swing his sword at the courier, but the Redguard caught the blade with his axe, and sent it flying into the woods. Instead of veering to get it, Scipius landed a swift punch under the man's chin, throwing back his hood, revealing his features. The Redguard didn't look over 25, with short, braided hair, ebony skin, and a wicked scar scouring his eye. In fury, the man ran for the nearest tree. As Scipius tried to follow, the man ran up the trunk, flipped over the Imperial's head, and grabbed him around the neck. The Redguard lifted Scipius off of his feet.

"You have seen too much my friend." The man brought Scipius down to eye level, hand firmly clasped around his neck. Back against the tree, Scipius could barely breathe. He gasped in protest. "I would kill you," the man said with a smile, "But I would not get payed. And we thieves do have honor. Sometimes." The man released his death grip on Scipius, letting him fall to the floor in a pile.

"You are lucky today, Imperial. I have a job to do, and however much fun this is, I've been told not to make any pit stops. I do hope we meet again for a rematch." Without another word, the thief ran silently into the woods, leaving the breathless soldier in the moonlight's cold embrace.


	8. Trust

Scipius blinked his eyes open, staring into the cold darkness of the forest. His head pounded as he sat up and surveyed his surroundings. The Imperial's thoughts felt slow and foggy, as if he'd banged his head on a stone wall. The night hadn't relinquished its hold, so he couldn't have been out for more than an hour. He got to his feet, leaning heavily on the tree he'd been pushed up against in the struggle. _The struggle…_ Scipius held his head as a wave of nausea overtook him. There was a battle. Memories of a hooded figure, struggling through the woods, and a powerful hand around his throat flooded his mind, and he reeled against the tree.

Scipius pushed his way through low-hanging branches as he tried to make his way back to the tents. He'd almost lost hope of ever finding a camp in the dark, but was relieved to see the soft glow of a simmering campfire. Scipius stumbled into the light, revealing a reassuring scene.

Injarld and Gord sat around the little blaze of the campfire, the latter telling a story in hushed excitement to a few other soldiers. They all laughed as the Nord acted out a battle with his mute friend. Bjergsten slapped his thigh with a hearty chuckle as Gord keeled over, defeated. Toorg laughed to himself gently, a few paces away. Not seeing the legate, Scipius limped his way around the group, and into the command tent.

Kjeld sat on his bedroll, eyes closed, mouth moving silently in prayer.

"Um, sir?" Scipius panted, physically spent. The legate opened his eyes quickly opened his eyes, and saw the battered soldier.

"Sorry, I didn't realize…" He stopped as he saw the condition of the Imperial. "What happened to you, lad? I told all of you to be careful in the forest at night. Running into trees is no good for your health, you know."

Scipius sensed the sarcasm in the legate's voice, and decided to ignore it. "I was attacked."

"Oh." Kjeld's light-hearted mood hardened. "I'll heal your wounds. Tell me everything."

As Scipius explained, Legate Thundersong placed his hands on various bruises and welts from the battle. With each of the legate's touches, a soft, warm glow illuminated the tent. The feeling was strange, like warm water running through his veins. He felt rejuvenated by the time he finished talking.

"This is concerning," the legate said, leaning back. "You're sure the man said he was going to Windhelm?"

Scipius nodded. "Yep. Then he almost decapitated me. He was gigantic."

Kjeld reclined into his bedroll, closing his eyes in thought. "And we're the only people out here…" He sat up again, eyes snapping open in grim revelation. He stood up, and hoisted his shield. "This other man that you saw, with the cloak. Can you describe him for me?"

"Not really," Scipius wiped his brow. "He was male, that's for sure. I didn't catch anything else. What's up?"

Kjeld turned, looking outside of the tent. A muffled uproar of laughter seeped in from the campfire. "We may have a spy in our ranks." The legate turned back to the Imperial quickly. "Have you told anyone of what's happened?"

"No, I came straight to you." Scipius felt fear and anger course through his blood. The thought of being betrayed made his skin crawl.

Kjeld looked back outside suspiciously. "Good. Tell no one else." The Nord massaged his head. "I was afraid of something like this."

Scipius tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword. "Shouldn't we conduct an investigation? Ask the men if they saw anything?"

Kjeld looked up, sad. "No. The Legion needs trust, Remulus. Tell me, if you had suspicions that one of your brothers-in-arms was a traitor, would you still fight hard to protect them?"

Scipius looked down. "Well, no…"

"Exactly. Telling the troops would only harbor resentment. I'll conduct my own investigation. You just focus on keeping your fellow soldiers alive."

"Understood." Scipius nodded, and began to exit quietly. He turned back awkwardly. "I didn't know you were a religious man."

The legate slung his shield across his back, and walked in front of Scipius. "I was a priest, before this gods-forsaken war." A smile played across his lips. "Love is a rare commodity in battle, child." He opened the tent flaps, and walked outside, Scipius close behind.

The next morning, as they marched through the woods, Scipius dwelled on his promise to the legate. Morning light fell dappled through the branches. A brisk wind sent needles flying from the treetops, careening around them like verdant snow. The air carried the crisp scent of sap as the cohort marched through the pine forest, unaware of a traitor in their midst. Scipius found himself keeping pace with Bjergsten.

"So, where did you run off to last night?" Bjergsten pushed him playfully. "You missed out on _The Tale of Gord the Stoppable_! Let me tell you, that man is quite the storyteller."

Scipius's mind struggled to find an answer. "I… I needed some fresh air. Accidentally hit a tree on my way back, though."

"Ouch." Bjergsten winced in sympathy. Scipius was tempted to tell him the truth, but Legate Thundersong was pretty clear when he said to not speak of this to anyone.

"Hold!" Kjeld called out from the front, halting the Imperial trek.

"What? What is it?" Scipius struggled to look over the line of soldiers.

He finally found an open spot, and shoved his way in past a couple of Imperials. What he saw confused him.

A small pile of spruce logs were piled up, chopped and rolled into the middle of the road, stopping their advance. Two dozen men in rough leathers and various mismatched weapons stood behind it, trying to look menacing. One man was aiming a bow at Kjeld's neck, who didn't look concerned at all. He politely waved to the bandits with a smirk. "Excuse me, good sirs, could you please move your pitiful little blockade before we have to move it for you?"

The man with the bow, a lanky little man with a nervous expression on his face, laughed weakly. "You have fallen into our trap! Now you have to pay gold to get past, or die!" His words sounded rehearsed, and he spoke with a stutter.

The legate raised his arm, and the legionnaires drew their swords, sending a metallic shimmer along the ranks. The bandits recoiled in fear. "Just because Mara shows compassion doesn't mean I have to. Last chance."

One of the other bandits spoke up. "Shorty, maybe we should let these guys pass…"

The small bowman turned around. "Not you, too! Come on, people, work with me! If we let every sorry fool with a sword through here without a toll, we would never make any money!" The bowman turned back around, miffed. "Now, where were we?"

"I think you were going to die trying to rob us," Gord offered from the back.

"Yeah, that's… Wait, no! I mean… Ugh…" Shorty sighed, exasperated. "Just get them." Nobody moved.

Kjeld stepped forward slowly, and the ruffians edged away. He called back to his cohort. "Toorg!"

The Orc stepped forward sheepishly. "I kill them?" Toorg looked sadly at his axe.

Kjeld stepped back to the Orc, and put a hand on his shoulder. "Scare them to Sovngarde and back," he whispered.

Toorg looked confusedly to the legate, then to the bandits. Then, suddenly understanding, a look of glee came across the barbarian's face as he roared, and charged. He brought his battleaxe down on the logs, splintering them in half. With a squeal, Shorty stumbled back. Toorg bellowed gutturally, sending the hooligans running for the hills, screaming and crying.

As the sounds of absolute terror faded into the distance, the legate patted Toorg on the back. "One doesn't need to be bloodthirsty to be mighty, my large friend." With that, Kjeld ordered the troops onward through the deep woods.


	9. The Setting Sun

The sun began to set under the reaching arms of the forest as Scipius marched, tired and hungry. The trees whistled an echoing cry as a chilling wind blew through the boughs. A fox trilled in unison, its light orange coat shimmering with the setting sun. One look at the band of legionnaires caused it to dash into the awaiting woods. Scipius checked his sword, making sure that it was properly buckled to his waist.

Their stop at Falkreath was short and uneventful, as were the days after. Scipius couldn't shake the feeling of foreboding that came with knowing that there was a traitor in his midst. The Imperial even found himself questioning the motives of his best friends. Every time Bjergsten or Toorg had to take a bathroom break, Scipius's mind immediately wandered to the muscular Redguard, and the letter. His throat throbbed uncomfortably as the troupe crested a small hill. Helgen rose on the horizon, a solitary haven in the forest, beckoning the band onward.

"Well, look at that, men! We're ahead of schedule," said Kjeld, the Nord's thundering voice reverberating in Scipius's skull. "Let's show the general why this is the best cohort in the Legion!"

The rest of the troops cheered, and doubled the pace towards the town. As they got closer, Scipius could just make out the cobbled walls, at least as high as those of Solitude. A large wooden gate blocked their way into the town, flanked by a squadron of Legion soldiers. They nodded to the legate. He nodded back, and the guards pushed open the heavy doors.

"Why so many soldiers?" Toorg looked uncomfortably between Scipius and Bjergsten. Scipius was gripped by a stab of suspicion, but swallowed it down.

"I don't know, friend. Maybe this 'operation' that we're doing is more important than we thought…" Bjergsten looked down at his mace, the weapon banging against his steel armor.

Legate Thundersong led them through the town, into the main square. The town itself was nowhere as impressive as the walls were. Wooden houses dotted the interior, a large stone tower watching over them diligently. Lazy grey smoke drifted up in the distance. In the square, a contingent of heavily armored legionnaires marched in, one bearing the flag of the Legion. Leading the force was a middle-aged Imperial, with a hint of silver hair gracing his head. He wore shining gold armor, glistening fantastically in the setting sun. Kjeld walked up to the man and saluted.

"General," he said, lifting his arm to his heart. "Legate Kjeld Thundersong, reporting for duty."

General Tullius saluted back. The General was smaller in stature, but had a fire of determination in his eye. "Legate. Are these the new recruits?"

"Yes sir. Straight out of Solitude." Kjeld gestured back to the band. "We've already been through a lot to get here."

General Tullius looked on the determined faces of the soldiers. "I can see that." He walked past the legate, and paced the line of troops. Scipius tensed excitedly whenever he passed. "I suppose you're all wondering what you're here for. Well, I'm here to tell you, and I think you will all like the answer."

He paused. "As of last night, Ulfric Stormcloak was spotted near Darkwater Crossing. I've received intel that he plans to make camp there for a few days, to muster his troops. We aren't going to let him do that. In fact, we're going to bring him a present; Imperial justice." Scipius looked down the line of soldiers. All of them whooped in excitement. He could barely contain his own.

"I will send Legate Thundersong to Darkwater Crossing in the morning, with a contingent of soldiers. Some of you will go capture this rebel. Others will stay here, and guard the town from attack. Then…" The general paused dramatically. "We will execute Ulfric Stormcloak, and restore the peace!"

An uproar of approval surged throughout the gathered soldiers. Scipius felt his heart swell with emotion. Restoring the peace was why Scipius wanted to join the Legion in the first place. It seemed as if he wouldn't be disappointed.

"When should I leave, General?" Kjeld, with a rugged smile, glanced to the ever-darkening east.

"First light tomorrow, legate." Tullius gestured to Scipius's line. "Pick your two strongest warriors, and follow me. I have to introduce you to the rest of your team."

Kjeld looked back to his legionnaires, sizing them all up. "No hard feelings, boys, but I'm looking for muscle mass, here. Toorg, Bjergsten, fall in."

Toorg looked apologetically at Scipius. "Sorry, Skippy. Sad you did not get chosen."

Bjergsten patted the Imperial on the shoulder. "I think I know what the legate is trying to do." He turned to Kjeld. "Permission to speak, sir?"

"Granted." Kjeld looked at him, as if he knew what he was going to say.

"Why are you choosing us? Sofifa could pick them off at long-range. Gord is just as capable as me. And Toorg hates killing. So, why us?"

Kjeld looked into each of his soldier's eyes. "Do you all remember the gang of bandits we faced?"

A Nord spoke up, smiling. "Yeah, that's my favorite of Gord's campfire stories." Gord feigned a terrified face, and a mock scream in terror.

"Well," said Kjeld, continuing, "We're going to scare them into submission. Less bloody that way. For both sides." Kjeld stared into the distance, his mirth all but vanished.

"That's what I thought," said Bjergsten, nodding. "C'mon, Mighty Toorg, we have a war to win."

Toorg smiled. "Yes, Bee-Sting." The Orc looked back to Scipius. "See ya, Skippy!"

"Save some action for us, please." Scipius waved as they walked off with the legate.

The rest of the soldiers stood around, bored."Guard duty," muttered one of the Imperials in Scipius's line. "Boring."

"Yeah," another muttered. "Maybe we'll get lucky, and Ulfric will attack Helgen."

Sofifa scowled, and walked off. Scipius felt a pang of suspicion, and decided to follow. He had never really talked to the Nord woman. That night, with the Redguard, he could've sworn that it was a man under the dark hood, but his memory of the event had started to fog, and he questioned himself. Either way, Kjeld said to trust his fellow soldiers, and Scipius reasoned that learning more about a person was a good way to start trusting them.

He caught up with her by the barracks, the lamplight outside illuminating her frame, sending gold cascading through her hair. The sun had finally set, leaving nothing in the sky but it's rosy hues. A cricket chirped a few houses away.

Sofifa looked mad. She had her bow drawn, an arrow positioned towards a target. She took the shot, and missed, her arrow clanking against stone. She swore, retrieving her arrow.

"Nice shot," said Scipius, leaning against the wall of a nearby house.

"Mock me again, and the next arrow goes in your skull." Sofifa aimed at the target again, and missed. She swore again.

"Is something wrong?" Scipius walked up to her. "You don't seem like yourself."

"None of your business." She retrieved her arrow again, sticking it into her quiver, fuming. "Why do you even care? You've never even talked to me before!"

"I… Well, the Legion is about working as a team, right? If one of my teammates has a problem, I do, too." Scipius shrugged. "So, what's bothering you?"

Sofifa sighed. "Fine! I just think that capturing Ulfric and bringing him here is a bad idea."

"What, would you rather have them let him go?" Scipius hid his suspicion with a smile.

"No, I think they should kill him on the spot!" Sofifa threw her bow on the ground in anger. "After all that he's done, he doesn't deserve a proper execution. He deserves to be put down like a dog!"

Scipius paused, searching her blue eyes. "You lost someone to him, didn't you?"

The Nord woman's angry expression melted into sadness. Tears were beginning to form in her eyes. "My… My father is… was… a Stormcloak. He was killed in a bandit attack." Her face hardened in rage. "If Ulfric hadn't begun this gods-awful rebellion, my father wouldn't have been there to… to… to die!"

Scipius frowned. "Oh, I had no idea… I'm so sorry. I'll leave you alone."

The woman breathed out slowly. "No, I needed that. I've never… Never talked about it with anyone. I feel better." Her anger was gone, replaced by a tired smirk.

"Glad I could help." He began to walk off.

Sofifa called after him. "Wait." He turned around. "I poured out my heart for you, so I think it's your turn. What's your story, huh?"

"Oh, no, I'm much too sober to tell my life story." Scipius smiled, and gestured toward the inn, a glimmering fire lighting the darkness. "Wanna grab a drink with me?" Scipius looked down at her bow. "Or would you rather go and murder a training dummy?"

Sofifa patted Scipius's arm. "Only if you pay for the first round." She began to walk in the direction of the bar.

Scipius paused, enjoying the cool night. The cricket humed on, it's cheerful tune drifting through the city. Sofifa stopped, turned around, and beckoned the Imperial forward. He smiled and followed, letting the insects sing undisturbed.


	10. The Shoulders of Giants

The smell of juniper berries clouded the tavern as Scipius sat down with his mug. Sofifa sat across from him, guzzling beer straight from the bottle. _Great Divines, she's drinking like a fish!_ Scipius planted his mug on the table, and folded his hands. "So, where do I begin?"

A few seconds passed of the Nord enjoying her drink. Finally, she set it down with a heavy _clack_ , and wiped her mouth with her leather gauntlet. "Preferably from the beginning," she said with a smile. A drunken man stumbled past, headed outside, probably to throw up.

 _Where to start…_ Scipius let his mind wander through his life experiences, remembering each with either pain or pleasure. As he spoke, he was sucked away into his memories.

Scipius remembered the day his father died. He was only nine, yet he remembered it like it was yesterday. He was on the road outside of Rorikstead, playing with his wooden sword. Erik, a boy only a few years younger than him, stood parallel, wooden sword in hand. Opposite of them, twenty imaginary giants sniveled and growled menacingly.

"Giants," yelled Erik, rolling his shoulders. "They're trying to attack the farm! For the Legion!" With a surge, the boys ran forward, stabbing at the fake enemies with imaginary precision. Scipius cut one shoulder-to-hip, and then sliced another completely in two. Erik swung hard into the air with a satisfied grunt. "Ha, got 'im!"

"We are victorious," sqeaked Scipius, striking a pose.

As the boys reveled in their victory, a group of shapes took form in the distance."Someone's coming up the road!" Erik ran forward, dropping his sword. Scipius ran behind him, excitedly. As they got closer, Scipius saw their Imperial garb, and solemn faces.

After a few minutes of sprinting, they met the soldiers. "Hello," said Scipius, excitedly. "What's going on? Is someone attacking?" He pointed his sword around, enticing weak smiles from them. Then he saw the cart.

A weak voice emerged from behind the soldiers. "Is… is that my son?"

With a gasp, Scipius ran around the soldiers. His father, still dressed in his Imperial armor, laid as still as death on the wagon. His dark brown beard was caked in dry blood, and his eyes lolled uncomprehensively. The boy scampered to his father, and hugged him. "What's wrong, Daddy?"

"Son, I…I am hurt. Bad. I need to see your mother." Scipius's father hugged back weakly.

"Are you going to be okay?" Scipius pulled away, looking him up and down. A large bandage covered his midsection. The smell of infection clotted the little Scipius's nostrils.

"Erik," said Scipius's father, wincing. "Go get Rhea. Go get my wife."

Erik nodded, looked at Scipius with a sad, dark expression, and ran back to town.

The gravity of the situation fell on the little Imperial. "Daddy, tell me you're going to be okay," said Scipius, trembling. "You're fine, right? You'll be okay?"

Tears streamed down his father's face. He started sobbing, and pulled Scipius close again. "My son… Oh, my son…" he said, mournfully. Scipius started crying too. Father and son bawled together bitterly. He died that day from his wounds.

Many years passed. Outside the boundaries of Rorikstead, laying on top of a hill, Scipius watched the sun set. The sky bled in fantastic colors as it fell under the horizon. The plains were still. Suddenly, Scipius was jostled on the shoulder. Erik stood behind him, looking over the hills with a longing expression. "So, this is where you go to think," said Erik. "It is quite the sight."

Scipius looked back at him. "Did my mother send you to find me?"

"Yes," he said reluctantly, "and now I see why you sneak up here. This place… It makes me feel…"

"Free," Scipius finished. "From responsibilities, from worries, from… life."

"What are you escaping from, I wonder? I don't suppose Juno rebuffed your advances again." Erik shook Scipius by the shoulder again.

"You have no idea, friend." Scipius sat down, and sighed. "Why has Dibella struck me so? Why send down a perfect girl from the heavens, and put her just out of reach?"

Erik laughed. "I suppose to torment you." He looked over the hills again, drinking in the sight. "I'm sure there are other ladies for you out there."

"I know you have a secret love as well, Erik." Scipius poked him playfully.

"Oh, yes? And what might that be, hmm?"

"She is named Adventure," said Scipius, laughing. "You think of her every waking moment, it seems. You are infatuated, good sir!"

Erik guffawed. "Ah, you know me too well. Alas," he said dramatically, "'tis a forbidden love!" Then, a bit more serious, "My father wants me to stay home, work the farm."

"I suppose you want to go be a mercenary, then. Take on jobs for money."

"No, ad-ven-tur-er," he said, sounding out the syllables. "They're very different." Erik turned back to town with a sigh. "I'm stuck here, though."

"I'm off to join the Legion, first chance I get." Scipius looked out over the scenery. "Protect what I love, carry on my father's legacy, you know?"

"Jerik was a good man, Scipius," said Erik, sadly.

"That he was." Scipius stood up slowly, and looked down to town, where the night guard was about to start it's shift. "We should probably get back."

Erik nodded, the gasped in the direction of town. He pointed frantically. "Look, over there!"

Scipius looked where he was pointing. Everything looked normal to him. "What, what is it?"

Erik put his hand over his mouth. "Don't you see them? Oh, by the Divines, they're hideous!"

"What? What is it?" Scipius scanned the town hurriedly, looking for anything out of place. "I don't see them? What are they?"

Erik smiled mischievously. "Giants."


	11. Black Arrow

Scipius opened his eyes with a tired moan. He didn't remember passing out, but there he was, on the floor of the tavern, a puddle of drool leaking its way out of his lips. Sofifa stood over him, kicking him lightly in the ribs. She didn't look much better than Scipius felt. Her eyes were bloodshot, and her golden hair stuck out in unexpected places. "Get up," she said, trying to brush down her crazy hair with a knife.

Scipius groaned again. They had stayed up all night discussing their stories, and getting drunk. The mead they made here was fantastic. "Yeah, yeah, I'm… I'm up." Scipius stumbled to his feet, and wiped his mouth. He felt extremely sore, as if he had jogged a few miles before waking up. "Shor's bones, that smarts…"

Sofifa offered him a light smile. "You don't do this often, do you?"

"No," said Scipius, stretching. "This is an all-new experience for me."

"Come on, princess. We have to rally by sun-up." Sofifa started jogging in the direction of the main square.

"Did you just call me princess?" Scipius rushed after her. "I am no princess!"

"You sleep like one," she yelled over her shoulder.

The two joined the ranks of fellow Imperials, about a hundred in all guarding Helgen. They would need all one hundred of them if the Stormcloaks tried to free their king. Today was the day that the strike team would hopefully be returning from the operation, if they returned at all. Scipius was worried for Toorg and Bjersten. He'd grown to love his new friends.

An Imperial woman led the rally. She had dark hair, fierce eyes, and a full set of Imperial heavy armor.

"Listen up, men!" The woman's voice was loud, and immediately sent a hush throughout the crowd. "My name is Captain Pevera. I will be standing in for the General today, as he has business to take care of."

One Imperial close to Scipius coughed. "Dirty Thalmor." A few of the other soldiers around him smirked.

This exchange went unnoticed by the Captain. "I have recieved a message from Legate Thundersong early this morning. The raid was successful." Cheers from the crowd. "We need to seal this part of town off for the execution. We wouldn't want anyone to interfere with our victory, now would we?"

Another cheer erupted from the gathering. Scipius found himself caught up in the excitement. Even Sofifa, who was against the idea of taking Ulfric alive, found herself cheering. The cacophony of mirth was infectious.

The army dispersed to make preparations. Scipius found himself on guard duty, watching the North entrance to Helgen. He leaned against the stone, looking down on the road in boredom. He found himself wishing for the open road again, which surprized him. Skyrim was a harsh and unforgiving place, a wilderness that could not be tamed. Scipius had started admiring the power of nature. He felt the urge to explore, and discover what there was to see out there. _Stop,_ he thought to himself, pushing these thoughts from his mind. _There are people counting on you to watch this road._

Quite the beautiful road, too. The trees swayed lazily in the breeze, dancing to the rhythm of the wind. The hard-packed earth of the path contrasted the beautiful twirls of the grass around it. In the woods, Scipius could just make out a rabbit contentedly munching on a tuft of grass. Patches of snow, drifted down from the mountaintops, shone brightly in the sunlight, their cold, soft forms glaring in the daylight.

Scipius was daydreaming about his home when he heard them. The distinct sound of horses, and drawn wagons. With a bit of a start, he yelled out, "They're here!"

The entire city suddenly burst into life. Soldiers lined the streets, taking up position. He saw Sofifa take up a spot on the wall adjacent to his. Gord and Injarld were together, like always, down on the ground where the prisoners were to be executed. Scipius peered over the edge as the carts wheeled under the wall. He saw Kjeld first, leading the procession resolutely on his horse. Bjergsten drove the first cart, his fiery beard blazing in the morning light. Two other carts followed, all packed with prisoners. Bringing up the rear was Toorg, and a few other soldiers. Scipius waved to them, and examined the prisoners, looking for the famous Ulfric Stormcloak.

Most of them still had their Stormcloak uniforms on, most likely to identify them. A couple of Nords in the last cart didn't wear uniforms, which confused Scipius a little. Perhaps they were just criminals, taken to be executed with the rest of the scum. One in the back caught his eye, however.

Ulfric Stormcloak kept his head down, covering his fierce features. His golden hair tumbled down his head, further obscuring his face. He wore fine furs, and armor. _He must be a warrior, then._ A cloth was tightly wrapped over his mouth. Why, Scipius had no idea. He had heard that it had something to do with his voice. Maybe his speech was terrible.He could hear one of the prisoners rambling his prayers to the Gods as he passed under. _May Mara have mercy on his soul,_ thought Scipius sadly, as he watched. Observing the prison carts meander towards the town square, he turned his gaze back to the road. If the Stormcloaks were to attack to take back their king, now would be the time.

Scipius tried to keep his attention away from the actual execution, trying instead to strategize about an attack. _They would most likely come out of those bushes, or behind that tree, and then I would leap down..._

A few minutes passed. Then, the sound of metal on flesh. He heard the outrage, and the approval of the crowd. Scipius only kept his eyes on the road. Then, he heard it.

The noise was long, low, and foreboding, like the wind rushing past a mountain. It sent chills down the Imperial's spine. _What was that?_ Scipius looked at the road, peering down as far as he could see. Nothing. He looked to Sofifa, who looked back at him, alarmed. _So I didn't imagine it._

Scipius scanned his surroundings, looking for any signs of danger. The trees had stopped swaying. The wind died. The grass ended its twirling, and the snow stopped sparkling. Skyrim itself felt _afraid,_ like a terrified fox, hiding from the hounds. Looking over the forest, Scipius was happy to see the rabbit that he observed earlier, still munching on its meal. Suddenly, its ears bolted up, looking to the sky. With a terrified scream, the rabbit dashed off, leaving its footprints in the snow. Surprised, Scipius risked a glance up.

The sky seemed normal. Something felt off, though. The sun didn't shine as bright as Scipius remembered. The clouds were darker, as if a storm was coming. Thunder rumbled not far away.

No, not thunder. A terrible shriek, like a gigantic eagle swooping down towards its prey, rang in Scipius's ears. Terrified, he looked to where the noise was coming from. His heart stopped.

An enormous black arrow sailed through the sky, headed for Helgen, burning red eyes staring straight at him. Scipius couldn't move. He couldn't do anything but watch as the behemoth closed the gap, ebony wings obscuring the sky as it gained altitude.

"D...Dra..." Scipius tried to talk, but only incoherent noises came out. The monster shrieked over him, landing on the tower overlooking the execution with a _crunch_. It let out a savage roar, a terrible sound that made Scipius want to curl up and hide. The wind picked up, and dark clouds began to swirl in the heavens as the dragon summoned death from above.


End file.
